"She's a girl," he argues.
He tries to make them understand, to explain that what they have wrongly classified as a beast- a monster, tainted by shadow and sin- is merely a child. They don't seem to grasp it; he can see it through their gestures and their closed-off speech, adamant that death is the solution, but too afraid to wield the blade themselves.
He doesn't know how to convince them of their misdeeds, or if he could, as they refuse to listen even as they prepare for some social gathering that's unanimously been scheduled. His questions are ignored- about the girl and what they intend to do with her- and Newt's left to follow like a kicked crup as they don on paint like wicked masks and colorful garbs and ready themselves.
"Where's her mother?" he asks after frustration has driven him to be less than gentlemanly, unable to understand what's happening. He's only just come to this place and, if not for the girl, he'd have already left.
Newt's met with a startling silence and, for a moment, the anger dissipates and he worries that there's more than just neglect to this story. Only death could change an active village into one of statues in a matter of seconds.
But then a woman brazenly steps forward and, if he can look past the shadowed scarf, he can see bits and pieces of the girl. With the rest of her people at her back, the woman meets Newt's inquiry and he thinks that not even Gods can perfect such a chilling stare- there's no hint of love in her eyes, but rather a toxic mixture of anger and resolution. If he looks deeper he can see the deep roots of fear.
I am no mother of demons, she all but spits at him and Newt can only stare gobsmacked as the rest of the villagers gathered around gain fervor at her words. They convulse at the center of the village, where a massive fire comes alive, sprawling shadows reaching the border of the trees. They chant and plead and yell at the bright flames, screaming out to the heavens and whatever deity watching over them to protect them from the "demon" just beyond their village, and Newt shrinks away, unable to let himself be anywhere near this kind of discord. The voices are too high and the drums are too loud: harsh against the stark silence currently settled over the jungle.
The mother is the loudest of them all.
He finds it extremely difficult to meet their eyes. If he does, he's worried he'll do something he'll regret like hex the lot of them. A lesser man wouldn't have held back, but, sadly, he is not.
So he does the only thing he can do: he goes back to the girl.
The chanting and wailing is loud in his ears as he leaves the hellish glow of the fire with words trailing after him as he escapes to the abandoned hut. No one stops him, too busy with their prayers to notice his absence. Death, they plead to the flames, voices rising with the beat of the drums, death to the beast.
Like before, a scuttling sound precedes his entrance and Newt catches sight of a dark shape flying across a beam of moonlight shining through the small window away from the doorway. The girl crouches at her corner watching him with wide eyes like she's been caught stealing. She must have been lingering at the entrance, Newt suspects, watching the happenings outside her hut, and, judging from her body language, she's expecting a retaliation. I wonder if this is a common occurrence, Newt thinks and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck bristle in anger and annoyance.
The voices outside swell in volume at a particularly desperate plea and the girl's expression crumples, and Newt knows she understands what they mean, if not what's said exactly.
"I'm not like them," he tells her softly, kneeling an acceptable distance away. "In fact, I'm like you- I'm a wizard."
All he gets is a wary stare, but he's undeterred. He lays a hand on his chest. "I'm here to help. My name is Newt- Newt Scamander. Can you say that? Newt?"
She's small- too small: a tree twig, in contrast to the other village children, with knobby knees and sunken skin that mark her as not only underweight but malnourished. The sight of her body has Newt's anger rising again- not for her, but for the people who've put her in this state and currently praying for her death- and redoubles his determination to help her.
Except little girls aren't beasts.
She's not one of his creatures no matter how misunderstood and mistreated and he can't treat her like one. He reminds himself of this when he's rejected, when she refuses to answer him. It's all so misleading when she makes a noise more fitting for a kneazle than a little girl or crawls and eats like desperate graphorn.
Still, he tries.
He carries this one-sided conversation long after the village has calmed and retreated to their huts, and the sounds of the wilderness are their only companions in the night. He talks soothing words, trying to tempt the girl to respond.
"Newt," he says again, drawing out the word and looking at the girl meaningfully.
He expects it to go as well as his other tries, but is surprised when she mimics him, placing a hand where her heart lies. She doesn't offer a name and Newt doesn't force one out of her, but counts it as a success, if only a marginal one. At least she isn't cowering at his presence, or, worse, refusing to even interact with him. If she's willing to do this with him, then maybe hope isn't lost.
What he needs to do is to show her that she has nothing to fear at least not from him.
Wordless magic requires more practice and wandless magic is only done by the more skilled wizards and those new and naive to their power. Newt is neither, but he can do something small. He makes to raise his hand, but stops when the girl shrinks back.
"No, no- it's alright. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." The villagers can mistreat her and label her magic as a curse, but that's because they don't understand. He wouldn't do her any harm. Not now; not ever.
The girl stops, staring at him through her wild, tangled hair. Once he's sure he has her attention, Newt furrows his brow in concentration. He twists his fingers just so and a daisy appears out of thin air.
His watcher makes a surprised sound, eyes wide and zeroed on the flower in his hand.
She reaches out only to stop.
"Go ahead," he insists. "It's for you."
Their fingers brush momentarily when she takes the flower and she visibly jumps away from the contact. Newt remains motionless, face angled away, and waits. He feels her stare leave him and peeks out beneath his hair to watch her examine the flower. It looks bigger in her hand than his, pale and dainty, a bright spot against the dark backdrop of the dirty hut. She brings it closer and, oh so carefully, strokes a petal.
She smiles.